


tread lightly on my ground

by softlightwood



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: M/M, coffee shop au + florist au with a side of bakery au, this is just gratuitous high romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 17:22:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19214056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softlightwood/pseuds/softlightwood
Summary: Andrew's eyes slide to Neil’s own, hazel and framed with eyelashes dark enough to belie his natural hair colour, and his expression does something complicated. “Neil, I presume?”“Andrew,” Neil nods, confirming and asking all in one.Andrew hums. “Audacious of you to laugh at my height when you look to make a pretty decent arm-rest for Kevin, yourself”“Not your height,” Neil allows, “your pride. I would have gotten a stool”“I would have pushed you off of it”





	tread lightly on my ground

**Author's Note:**

  * For [smokesque](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smokesque/gifts).



> this one has been _so_ much fun to write!! this is my gift for the lovely [maz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smokesque/pseuds/smokesque) for our server gift exchange!! they requested many things and i included nearly all of them because i have no self-control. is it incredibly soft, dumb and ooc? yes, but its what they deserve. ily maz and i hope you like this!!!!
> 
> special shoutout to aaron for the name of the florist and for letting me yell abt this fic for a little while!!

Winter sunlight sneaks across the gravel sidewalk like the tide crawling in for bed and Neil Josten watches the short puffs of his breath curl up and vanish into the early morning air. Routine is a funny little thing and Neil finds himself settling into it with an ease he never thought possible; for the past week he’s watched the sky come to life while he runs the short distance to his brand new job, twenty minutes away from the apartment he now resides in with roommates he’s confident to call _friends._ Having been chewed up by witness protection and spat back out of the other side, and having lived the tail-end of his teenaged years with an uncle who was kind but consistently busy, Neil resigned himself to the notion of never experiencing a quote-on-quote _real life_ like everyone else. 

That is until one day, in a bout of pure coincidence, Neil happened to skim through Uncle Stuart’s morning newspaper and find an advertisement for a reasonably-priced room in a shared flat and think, _what if._ A few days of agonising over it and a rushed conversation with Stuart later, Neil was calling the number and agreeing to meet for coffee with _Kevin, Dan and Matt._ Neil vaguely remembers the paralysing fear of letting himself be _known_ by these people; of leaving the only semblance of stability he’d ever known to live in an apartment block with three people he didn’t know how to trust right then, but now he can’t imagine not having them in his life. His little _found family._

That was almost a year ago, but today marks a week since Neil stopped chipping away at his less-than-honest inheritance to get a _job_. 

_Little Fox Coffee Shop_ is nestled carefully between a French bakery and an unassuming antique store, on the perhaps aptly named _Fox Lane_. A pretty, italicised font announces the name in a startling shade of orange and a smattering of fox-paws fall strategically along the left-side window, glowing peachy-pink in the morning sun. There are a few outdoor tables stacked against one another and a chunky bike-chain fastens the lot of them to the fence that marks off the seating area; Neil’s first port of call is to unhook them and wipe away the residual winter dew with the back of his sleeve. Today marks his fifth official shift but Neil still isn’t quite used to the way the whole place smells distinctly of a sharp, cloying sort-of coffee that hits the delicate bend at the back of his throat almost as soon as he’s through the door. Overhead, two mirrored rows of lights all encased in brushed-copper domes flicker on with a series of sharp clicks and the whole café is blanketed in a soft, dusky light. 

There are booths along the back wall, orange cushioned seats that would look tacky anywhere else but nestled into rustic wooden benches and nudged beneath rounded oak tables. Smaller tables lead the way through the store, some settled in by the floor-to-ceiling windows and the rest scattered across the open floor.

Neil unabashedly _loves_ it. 

Maybe he’s compensating for something in surrounding himself with an environment as warm and welcoming as this but he wouldn’t change it for the world. Sometimes, he even thinks he might finally _deserve_ it.   
The routine of opening up is already familiar enough; one stipulation of the job was that Neil work the early shift, something most his colleagues weren’t all too fond of. Neil hasn’t met all of them yet, but he’s beyond relieved that included in the group of employees are Matt and Dan both; working with them is pure joy and Neil thinks he would have panicked his way out of a job by now if not for them.

Kevin, too, is always nearby, having recently inherited the _Au Maidrín Rua_ flower shop from his father, who had in turn inherited it from Kevin’s late mother some years back. _Au Maidrín Rua_ sits directly across the street from _Little Fox_ and always boasts the prettiest window display on the street – rivalled occasionally by the _Fancy Fox French Patisserie_ next door. Neil hasn’t actually paid it a visit as of yet but Kevin always pops in to buy a coffee on his lunch break and ask Neil his opinion on one bouquet or another.

Neil gives the schedule taped to the back wall a quick once-over, humming to himself as he flicks on all the relevant machinery. Betsy, _Little Fox_ ’s proud owner, should by doing the morning shift with Neil and Dan will take over after lunch – meaning Matt, at least, will be home to eat dinner with Neil later on. 

As Neil unstacks tables and unlocks the main doors ready for a day of business, he’s struck once again by how much he enjoys the monotony of it all. Neil’s start in life was the kind that gripped hard enough to bruise and working a quaint little 9-5 is more than a dream come true for him, cliché and embarrassing as that might be.

Even a few hours in, bumping hips with Betsy behind the counter as they both try to keep up with a steady chain of customers hurrying for a coffee before their daily commute, Neil can’t bring himself to hate a second of it. Betsy – or, Bee, as she insists they all call her – shouts something to Neil that gets lost somewhere between the sound of the espresso machine and the steam wand and Neil figures if it is important enough, she’ll repeat it once the hubbub dies down.

Neil is halfway through steaming a jug of almond milk when a hand touches his arm, and he jerks so sharply that the milk sloshes onto the counter and across his fingers. 

“ _Oh!_ ” a voice says, “sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. Neil, right?”

Halfway behind the counter is a man Neil doesn’t immediately recognise; he’s tall, far taller than Neil and Bee both, with a mop of curly black hair and a cheery smile that sets dimples into his dark skin. Neil blinks at him, wondering if this is one of the employees he’s yet to meet, and the man evidently reads the confusion on Neil’s face. 

“I’m Nicky, I work with Kevin?”

“Oh,” says Neil, nodding as he dabs at the milk still glistening against his hand. Kevin had mentioned Nicky a few times in passing and Neil has heard him have many a phone conversation starting with _It’s fine, Nicky, we can order more roses for tomorrow._ “Yeah. Hi”  
“Hi yourself. Kevin, Dan and Matt have been talking our ears off about how lovely you are so I wanted to stop by and see for myself. How are you finding it here? Bee’s a doll, right?”

Neil takes a moment to consider this. _Lovely_ isn’t the descriptor he would expect to be used in relation to himself and a part of him is surprised that he comes up in conversation when he’s not around. In the end, he simply nods. “She is. I love it here, I really do”

“I’m glad! Kevin wanted to snag you for our place but Andrew said he wasn’t in the mood for training up an amateur, so I guess Bee got lucky!”

“Andrew?”

“Oh! Andrew is my cousin and Bee’s son – adoptive son, but my _actual_ cousin – it’s a whole thing. He works with us at Au Maidrin, too! I make him sound like a grump but he has a good heart”

“Right,” Neil agrees, a little unsure but unwilling to dispute it either way. 

“Nicholas, if you’re going to stand behind the counter I’m going to start giving you jobs to do” Bee chimes in, swatting at him with a dishcloth from across the space. Nicky ducks back, laughing in a way that surprises Neil with its full, unabashed openness. 

“I’m going, I’m going! I just wanted to meet Neil! Oh, _and_ ” he leans forward, conspiratorial, shifting into a stage-whisper behind his hand. “Every now and then all of us Foxes get together and hang out – usually we just cook a ton of food and sit around at my house eating too much of it. It’ll be Bee’s lot, Kevin’s lot and the _Fancy Fox_ guys too. If you’re free on Saturday, you should join us!”

Initially, panic sets in. Neil isn’t sure how he feels about invading a gathering with such a large group of obviously close friends, but he can’t decide if _not_ going would make that feeling better, or worse. Nicky lifts a hand, possibly to clap Neil on the shoulder, but then thinks better of it and raps a knuckle on the counter instead. “Think about it, okay? No pressure! It was good to meet you”

Neil has no idea how Nicky clocked his tendency to flinch at unfamiliar touch so quickly, but Neil thinks maybe Nicky is just _that_ perceptive. Nicky has almost reached the door again when he turns, pointing at Neil with a loose sort-of smile on his face. “Oh, and come give Kevin a shake, would you? Andrew is gonna kill him if he doesn’t stop stressing out”

Kevin has a big, expensive, _incredibly specific_ wedding order to fill this week, Neil recalls. Bouquets, centrepieces, buttonholes and some natural, handpicked petals to be scattered down the aisle. Dan, Matt and Neil have been reassuring him all week that it will be _fine_ but Kevin is a perfectionist at heart and Neil knows he wont relax until its all over. 

Maybe Neil _should_ take him a snack, just to be on the safe side. 

When the morning rush fades smoothly into a pre-lunchtime lull, Bee nudges Neil away from the counter and insists he go and grab something to eat. “Or, at the very least, sit down. You make me feel sleepy with all the energy you have.”

Remembering his conversation with Nicky, Neil tucks his apron beneath the counter and follows the smell of sweet pastry down to the Fancy Fox Patisserie. The last of the small group of businesses named after the street they settled on, _Fancy Fox_ is a French place owned by one Jean Moreau, a man Kevin speaks highly of for no reason Neil can yet discern. It makes Dan giggle, whenever he does, so Neil can only assume Kevin likes Jean for more than just his fruit tarts. 

Behind the counter today is a man with hair so golden and curly it could belong to a cherub. Jeremy Knox, or so the hand-painted name tag declares, with an exclamation point and two smiley faces. “Neil! Neil, right? Hiya!”

“Hey,” Neil manages, struggling as-ever with socialising like a normal person. “I’m, uh. Do you know what Kevin normally eats, from here?”

At the mention of Kevin’s name, Jeremy brightens so drastically that even _Neil_ sees it for what it is. “Kevin? I just made some macarons using apricot, now you mention it. He likes the fruity stuff more than the cakes. You want a couple?”

Neil nods, watching as Jeremy uses a delicate pair of tongs to slip a few of them into a paper box. It doesn’t escape his notice that the macarons have a delicate, orange heart iced into the top, either. “He’s stressing about an order so I uh, figured I’d take him snacks”

Jeremy looks up from where he’s fastening the box, tipping his head to peer at Neil curiously. “That’s awful nice of you, Neil”

“Hm? Yeah, I guess. How much for the macarons?”

“Huh? Oh, no, free of charge for my favourite customer. Kevin, that is. No offence”

“None taken,” and Neil scoops up the little box, peering in at the carefully arranged treats through the little film window. “See you around?”

“Here’s hoping!”

_Odd,_ Neil thinks, as he starts across the street. 

When he arrives at _Au Maidrín Rua_ Kevin is, indeed, sending himself into an anxious tailspin. He’s not actually supposed to be on shift, this morning, but he’s fluttering around examining flowers and tapping away at his iPad nonetheless. Nicky is cheerfully explaining the difference between two very similar arrangements by the front desk, though he shoots Neil a relieved sort of smile when he spots him, and Neil holds up the macarons in answer. 

“Kevin”

“Four of the- oh. Neil, hey. What’s up?”

Neil wiggles the box at him. “A gift from Jeremy”

“ _Oh_ ” Kevin brightens, immediately. Neil thinks Nicky should have just sent Jeremy over in the first place. “Thanks. I’m _not_ stressing”

“I feel like you are, though”

“You definitely are,” chimes in a third voice. Neil peers up to see a man he hadn’t noticed right away, sequestered away by the refrigerated flower cabinet at the back of the store. He isn’t looking at them, but Neil presumes _this_ must be Andrew. As Neil observes him, he takes a slow step back from the cabinet and tips his head, fluffy blonde hair catching the light as he peers up at a row of shelves. 

Exceptionally high shelves, now that Neil really considers it. 

Andrew, by the looks of it, is no taller than Neil himself. Even shorter, maybe. If it were Neil, he’s grab a stool or a spare crate and swallow his pride, but something about the set of Andrew’s shoulders suggests that stubbornness is about to prevail. He reaches up to open the the glass doors of the highest shelf, a feat in and of itself, and Neil has to hide a smile behind his hand when he realises the only tray of flowers up there is pushed right against the back wall. 

Andrew stretches upward, the sleeves of his fitted black shirt falling snug around his upper arms, and his fingertips merely brush the edge of the shelf. A little huff of amusement escapes Neil without him really thinking about it and then there’s something square pushed up against his fingertips, Kevin’s voice saying “…want the last macaron, Neil?”

“Hm? Oh,” and he stretches out his fingers to clasp around the treat, “thanks, yeah”

“What’s with you?” asks Nicky, who appears to have successfully cashed up the customer he had been speaking with. Then, “ _oh_ , are you watching Andrew struggle with the shelving? Wear heels, Andrew”

“Mind your business, Nicky” Andrew monotones, spinning on his heel with a sharp eyebrow raised in defiance. His eyes slide to Neil’s own, hazel and framed with eyelashes dark enough to belie his natural hair colour, and his expression does something complicated. “Neil, I presume?”

“ _Andrew_ ,” Neil nods, confirming and asking all in one. 

Andrew hums. “Audacious of you to laugh at my height when you look to make a pretty decent arm-rest for Kevin, yourself”

“Not your height,” Neil allows, “your pride. I would have gotten a stool”

“I would have pushed you off of it” 

“Wow,” Nicky interjects. “I see why Kevin hasn’t introduced the two of you yet”

Andrew mutters something a little less than pleasant before disappearing through an orange door marked _Staff Only!_ , presumably to fetch a stool. Nicky and Kevin share a _look_ that Neil couldn’t decipher if he tried. 

“On that note,” Nicky announces, “I’m clocking out. Kevin, the buttonholes are due in tomorrow and Andrew is handling the rest. Neil, I better see you at my house this weekend”

“Sure,” says Neil. “Yeah. I’ll be there”

 

✽✽✽✽✽✽✽

Nicky lives in a surprisingly large yet modest house on the outskirts of Palmetto, under the umbrella of a town named Columbia. It’s cosier than Neil had expected it would be, too, considering general age range of its occupants. The garden is well tended; there’s a small vegetable patch tucked away in the front corner and a neatly-trimmed lawn split into two by a cobbled path. Now that Neil thinks about it, he vaguely remembers Dan telling him about Nicky’s fiancé and his fancy job, which likely goes a long way to explaining the sleek black Maserati parked on the drive. A few other cars lay scattered by the curb, an indication that everyone else has already arrived, and Matt swings his truck into park behind a car Neil recognises as having been parked at the back of _Fancy Fox_. 

Inside, Neil isn’t sure what he really expects to find, but he’s greeted by the low hum of chattering voices and the occasional glimmer of laughter. From behind Neil, Kevin tugs once on the sleeve of his shirt and murmurs “I can feel you panicking from here. There’s nothing to worry about”

“Sorry,” Neil whispers.

“Don’t apologise, dummy” Dan interjects, and then they’re in the thick of it. 

Nicky’s lounge falls somewhere between modern and cosy; sleek leather sofas draped with soft, bright blankets; a shiny wooden floor overlaid with a rug soft enough that Neil might curl up on it and take a nap. In the bay window, Neil recognises Renee from the weekend shifts at Little Foxes, sharing the seat with her wife, Allison Reynolds. Jeremy and Jean from the patisserie are sharing a sofa with someone Neil doesn’t recognise, though he assumes to be one of their staff, and a smiling woman sits cross-legged on the ground between their knees. Nicky is leaning up against an accent wall painted navy blue, chattering away to Andrew, who appears to be listening despite the resting disinterested expression on his face. 

“Kevin!” 

Jeremy’s elated outburst signals their arrival to the rest of them; only Kevin escapes by darting to settle on the arm of the sofa beside Jeremy, but Neil is soon surrounded by a group of people he only half-recognises.

“Neil! You made it!” Nicky pushes off of the wall to slap Matt’s shoulder and kiss Dan’s cheek, hesitating beside Neil before eventually just holding out a hand for a fistbump that Neil nearly doesn’t understand. 

Ever the doting, professional host, Nicky takes Neil on a full tour of the entire guest list. Allison Reynolds, _Au Maidrín Rua_ employee and former inhabitant of Neil’s room. Her wife, Renee, part-time barista at _Little Fox_ and full-time sweetheart. Nicky’s fiancé, Erik Klose, exceedingly handsome German with more muscle than any one person really _needs._ Alvarez, a baker at _Fancy Fox_ and their girlfriend, Laila. 

Andrew, who Neil has already met, but gladly accepts an introduction to, anyway.

And everyone is _nice_. Neil’s friends keep good friends who keep better friends and Neil finds himself immersed in a kind, funny, mismatched _family_ for a little while. 

Once the social niceties become a little too much, though, he slips a packet of Marlboro Red from his back pocket to wiggle it at Dan, indicating _I’m going to stand outside and smoke for a little while._ Dan frowns at him, always disapproving of his worst habit, but nods in understanding at Neil needing to recharge his batteries for a little while. The winter air seems more biting than it had when he first got here and a shiver overtakes the lines of tension framing Neil’s shoulders; maybe a long-sleeved t-shirt isn’t adequate protection from the cold, after all. 

Luckily he’s wearing jeans that are just thick enough to dispel the worst of the cold trapped within the concrete stoop when he sits on it, crossing his ankles over frozen grass as his breath mingles with the smoke now streaming from the end of his cigarette. 

Neil can’t help but imagine that this is what his life would have looked like if he _had_ been the type to get invited to parties, sitting on the back porch trying to stop the racing of his heart. Considering everything he’s been through in his life, it seems mundane that too many people are the catalyst for a bout of panic, but he supposes he’s still conditioned to be wary around new people. 

A shiver ripples through him like a tidal wave and Neil brings his elbows in, huddling in on himself enough to stave off another one. He’s just considering giving up altogether – maybe he can hide in the bathroom, instead – when a shadow falls over his feet and something soft lands in his lap. 

“What-”

“You looked cold,” says Andrew, voice level and indifferent. Neil peers up at him in surprise; he hadn’t even noticed Andrew step out. An overhead streetlight casts his hair in an amber glow and his eyes look like whisky on-the-rocks. Neil thinks, _oh._ There’s a cigarette in his hand, Neil realises, and he blows out a mouthful of smoke into the slanted space between them. 

The thing in Neil’s lap is a hoodie. “Thanks”

Andrew shrugs. Neil is beginning to suspect that the indifference is an act, but he slips on the hoodie nonetheless. “Bee would have my head if I let her newest employee freeze to death”

“I was fine,” Neil mumbles. Part of him wants to ask why he calls Bee _Bee_ , but it isn’t as though Neil had the most natural upbringing in the world, so he lets it slide. 

“Liar,” Andrew replies, but he settles beside Neil on the stoop anyway. 

They smoke in silence for a little while, Neil aware of Andrew’s presence but not, as he might have assumed, perturbed by it in any way. Eventually, Andrew stubs out his cigarette beneath a heavy-soled boot and he stands, peering down at Neil with an indecipherable expression on his face. “You’re not like the rest of them”

“Maybe,” Neil allows. “Neither are you”

Andrew nods and, instead of heading back for the house, he starts toward the fancy black Maserati, unlocking it with the keys in his own pocket before speeding off into the night. 

It isn’t until Neil gets changed for bed that night that he realises he still has Andrew’s hoodie

✽✽✽✽✽✽✽

He finds Andrew again a few days later.

Something about their interaction sticks in his mind, slipping between the gaps in his concentration and drawing his gaze to the black hoodie draped over the back of his desk chair. Maybe, he thinks, he just feels a little guilty to have accidentally kept the hoodie. So in an attempt to rectify the situation, he puts it through a wash cycle with Matt’s nicest detergent and folds it into a grocery bag for safekeeping.

On his lunch break, he cuts across the road and into the heavily perfumed world of _Au Maidrín Rua_ , where Andrew is standing behind the main desk arranging a selection of pink fluted calla-lilies in amongst a bunch of baby’s breath. At the delicate tinkle of the chime above the door he peers up, eyes lifting in something close to surprise when he spots Neil there. 

“Oh. It’s you”

“It’s me,” Neil confirms. “I brought your hoodie back”

Andrew hums. He’s still fiddling with the flowers, shifting the stems this way and that. Neil becomes transfixed by the movement of his fingers, slender and freckled and dappled with little white scars. Without consciously deciding to do so, Neil finds himself drawn forwards, step stumbling over step until he lands at the opposite side of the desk, close enough to distinguish the scent of the lilies from everything else around them. It’s something sharper, less earthy than the rest of the shop, a little less like freshly cut grass and more like dry grass after the first rain. 

“Never seen a flower arrangement before?” Andrew asks.

“I’ve seen Kevin,” Neil murmurs, not really answering the question. “I’ve watched him sketch out arrangements and compare flower petals to colour swatch cards and try a hundred different shades of the same ribbon. You do it on instinct”

“Not everything has to be a process,” Andrew explains, voice softening around the edges. “Kevin likes to follow blueprints, I like to follow the flowers”

Laid out along the workbench, Neil notices that the lilies are grouped by colour. Andrew is working them into a soft gradient; pale and peachy on the outer edges of the spiral deepening into a heavy sort-of marmalade in the centre. It really is _beautiful._

“It looks lovely,” Neil says, the words instantly feeling strange on his tongue. _Lovely._ Not a word Neil ever finds himself using, not really, but one that seems to ring true and honest anyway. A trick of the light makes the very tips of Andrew’s ears burn pink, between the little black loops hooked through the cartilage there. 

“That’s the idea,” is what Andrew settles on. Something unfamiliar is crawling its way up Neil’s throat, an inexplicable urge to keep talking, to never really stop. Perhaps that’s just a symptom of surrounding himself with extroverts; none of his friends were difficult to know but Andrew is reserved and guarded. Maybe, Neil considers, a part of him just wants to _know_ Andrew. 

“Do you have time for a cigarette?”

It isn’t what Neil means to say. What Neil _means_ to say is, _I should get back_ , was _Bee will be wondering where I am_ , was _what happened to make you have scars on your hands that mimic my own?_ Andrew peers around the empty store, fingers stilling around the stem of a fluted freesia. “I suppose so”

Just outside _Au Maidrín Rua_ sits a little bench, surrounded by flowerpots and trailing leaves. Andrew settles into it with an intimate familiarity. He props a delicate wrist against the wooden arm, sleeves pushed up three-quarters to show an impressive array of blackwork tattoos and his cigarette hangs loose between two fingertips. Neil reaches over to snag the lighter from between the bend of his other hand and Andrew says, “I don’t think you got those in a fistfight”

His eyes, when Neil tries to meet them, are locked on the ugly patch of scarring spread across the back of Neil’s hand, disappearing off beneath his shirt-sleeve. It might be invasive coming from anyone else, but Neil watches Andrew flip the lighter between his own marred fingers and recognises it for what it is. “I took a fist to a knife-fight,” Neil explains. Then, amending, “a gun-fight, too. Also a brief dispute with a dashboard lighter, so I never really learned my lesson”

“That’ll do it every time,” Andrew agrees. Then, as though repaying Neil’s honesty, he wiggles his own fingers in the air. “I took a knife, but I didn’t know how to use it back then”

“But you do now?”

“Does that scare you, Neil Josten?”

Neil considers this. “I don’t think you’d be particularly inclined to use one on me, so. _No_ ”

“That makes one of us very stupid. I haven’t decided which one, yet”

That seems to be the end of their conversation, as Andrew tips his head to stare out across the quiet street. For a moment, Neil observes the line of his jaw, the faintest scraping of blonde stubble shadowing the very bones of it, and then he turns his gaze swiftly elsewhere. If heat steals high in his cheeks, well. Neil has no idea why.

Later, Neil is throwing his work jeans toward the _half-clean_ pile on his bedroom floor when a _thunk_ tells him he’s accidentally pocketed Andrew’s lighter. _How_ he’s managed this is another question entirely, because Andrew has a fancy, silver-plated thing whereas Neil only ever uses the cheap, disposable kind. Leaning so far off the bed that he almost topples, Neil digs around in the pocket until his fingers find cool metal and he fishes the lighter out from the folds of denim. 

It hadn’t been apparent yesterday, but the lighter is engraved in a delicate sort of font. 

_Subtle are the links which bind two souls that are so closely aligned._

Beneath the pad of his thumb, the writing is rough and intricately textured. If he’s being honest, Neil has no idea what it means. All he knows is that he will have to find Andrew again, and return it.

✽✽✽✽✽✽✽

This time, Andrew finds him. 

For perhaps the first time in the patchwork mess that is his life, Neil finds himself running _late._ Having an alarm on your mobile phone is all well and good assuming you _charge_ the thing, which Neil evidently did not, and so by the time he bursts into _Little Fox_ he’s sweaty and breathless and red in the face. 

And Andrew is sitting on a little brass stool by the counter.

For some reason, some inexplicable thing, Neil is hit with a wave of embarrassment that he couldn’t explain even if he tried. Behind the counter, Renee is methodically wiping coffee residue from an empty bean-hopper while Andrew nurses a large mug of what appears to be cocoa. Other than the three of them, the store is blessedly empty.

“Hey,” Neil gasps, trying to steady the air in his lungs, “sorry I’m late!”

“Only a little” Renee reassures him. “These things happen, Neil. Not to worry. You’ve met Andrew?”

At the mention of his name, Andrew shifts and brings his eyes up to meet Neil’s own. Neil can’t imagine what he finds there; if he looks anywhere as sweaty as he feels, it’ll be a miracle if Andrew ever gives him the time of day again. 

In an attempt to make himself more work-appropriate and less embarrassingly-sweaty, Neil ducks into the staffroom to deposit his things and make a valiant attempt at flattening his hair. It’s more than likely a lost cause, but he peers into the little water-marked mirror over the tea kettle anyway, fiddling with the loose curls tickling at his forehead.

A rap on the doorframe steals his attention and then there is Andrew, again, leaning casually against the wall as though he belongs there. Perhaps he does, Neil considers; Bee _is_ his mother, after all. Neil wonders if Andrew ever worked here, maybe as a teenager, younger and more alike the fire in his eyes than he seems nowadays. It makes him smile, soft, and he has to shake himself a little. Both of Andrew’s hands are folded behind the small of his back, now, and Neil reaches into the pocket of his own jeans to produce the lighter. 

“I think this is yours?”

“This is becoming quite the habit, isn’t it? Little kleptomaniac”

“To be fair,” Neil protests, “you _gave_ me the hoodie”

Andrew hums. Quietly, almost to himself, he murmurs, “I did, didn’t I?”

When he reaches for the lighter, his fingertips graze the unmarred skin of Neil’s palm and the gaze fixed upon him is heavy, honey-dark. Partly because he wants to know and, partly, because he doesn’t know how to deal with whatever _that_ was, Neil asks, “what does the quote mean?”

“ _Subtle are the links which bind two souls that are so closely aligned_ ” Andrew says, reciting the line from memory. “It’s a joke, of sorts. A lot of people told my twin and I that the only way they could tell us apart was the knowledge that Aaron does not smoke. A subtlety. This,” and he wiggles the lighter, “was a gift from him”

“Oh,” says Neil. “That’s nice”

“He’s an asshole” Andrew corrects, and the _but I love him_ goes unsaid. Something shifts, then, something imperceptible that flickers in the light drifting across Andrew’s face from an open window, and he brings out his other hand from the space between the wall and his back. In it, clutched between two fingers, is one of the calla-lilies from a few days ago, the very same ones Neil watched him shape and shift. 

Though, now he thinks about it, this one is a deeper shade than the rest. As though reading his thoughts, Andrew says “it was too dark for the bouquet. It matches your hair”

And with this, he extends his hand, almost cautious. A jolt of nerves explode outward from Neil’s chest when he understands that this flower is _for him._ A second passes, two, three. Neil says, voice stupid and soft, “ _oh_ ”

A tension seeps into Andrew’s frame and Neil moves before he can accidentally ruin whatever this is, fingers falling gentle around the stem of the flower, thumb accidentally grazing the skin of Andrew’s knuckles. “ _Thank you_ ”

For a moment, their eyes meet. For a moment, just one, Neil feels like his entire world is on the precipice of spinning entirely out of control, and then Andrew says, “I should go. The shop won’t open itself”

“I suppose not” Neil murmurs, more taken aback than he perhaps ought to be. Andrew lingers for just a few moments more, eyes skimming the surface of Neil’s own, mouth struggling somewhere between contemplative and pleased. The moment passes, and he ducks out of the hallway, leaving Neil to stare at the little gift in his hands. 

Neil takes one of the staff mugs, a bright yellow monstrosity with a cartoon bee painted on the front, and fills it with water from the little sink by the window. As he stands the fluted lily in the makeshift vase he finds himself smiling, soft and low, where no one can see. 

It feels _good._

✽✽✽✽✽✽✽

There are a few things that Neil, damaged and different as he is, had accepted long ago he would never experience. A normal childhood, for one thing, but he was mostly over that now. Parental affection, though Stuart had tried his best, and that probably falls under the first header, anyway. _Love_ , in a general sense, in a romantic sense, in the _childhood crush_ sense. To experience that with someone is to let someone in, Neil reasons, a feat he hadn’t imagined ever accomplishing. 

So its ridiculous, really, the tizzy that he’s sent himself into. Andrew is interesting. He’s attractive, if Neil is being honest with himself. Neil enjoys speaking with him in a way that ordinarily takes him weeks upon weeks to find ease in and Andrew, inexplicable as it may be, seems interested in _Neil._

Of course, that doesn’t mean anything, in the grand scheme of things. It could be a passing fancy, on Andrew’s behalf. A friendly gesture. 

Or, well. Not a _friendly_ gesture. Matt, upon seeing Neil arrive home with a flower cradled between his hands, had very nearly choked on his food.

_Regardless_ , Neil was _Neil_. It wouldn’t end well. It wouldn’t even _start._

Even so, he somehow finds himself in the _Fancy Fox_ the very next day, face stained red as Jean Moreau peers at him from behind a pair of decidedly-round glasses. 

“Minyard?” Jean asks, words coated in a thick French lilt. Neil nods. Jean hums. “I cannot say that I saw it coming. Usually he has the pain au chocolat, with a hot cocoa, though it might be sacrilegious of you to purchase a drink from us while wearing your apron”

“A risk I’m willing to take,” Neil sighs, faux-solemn. 

As Jean scoops a pastry into a little paper bag, he muses, “Jeremy was certain you had a…thing, for Kevin”

Perhaps impolitely, Neil splutters. “ _Kevin?_ What gave him _that_ idea?”

Jean shrugs. Conversation lulls as he turns away to melt some chocolate into a cup of hot milk and Neil smooths a thumb over the crinkles in the paper bag. “I think Kevin’s interests lie…elsewhere”

“I told Jeremy this. He is yet to believe me, so he keeps pining like a puppy. He’s lucky I love him”

As he speaks, Jean pushes a small cup into Neil’s hand and waves him away when he tries to hand over some cash. “Just knock some sense into Kevin before I lose my mind, and we’re even”

At _Au Maidrín Rua_ , Neil half expects to find the entire employee-pool hanging around in the store waiting to laugh him into next year, but Andrew is sitting behind the counter alone. It looks as though he’s making buttonholes, snipping the long stems away from some butter-yellow carnations and tying them up alongside a chrysanthemum spray. His sleeves are pushed up to his elbows and a stray leaf clings to the skin of his forearm, overlaying a floral piece he has inked there. Neil sucks in a breath, nervous in a way completely foreign to him, and Andrew peers up from his work.

“G’morning,” says Neil, voice pulled tight with the uncertainty of something so new, “I brought you breakfast?”

Andrew’s eyes find the paper bag, and they widen. “Oh”

Something in Neil deflates. “Unless you’ve eaten already-”

“No,” Andrew says quickly. Then, “No. I just…what is it?”

I lieu of answer, Neil sets both the cup and the paper bag down beside the tray of flowers at Andrew’s bench. After a moment’s inspection, Andrew hums. “You did your research. Though, I could very well tell my mother that you’re buying cocoa from her bitter, bitter rivals”

A smile overtakes Neil, light and airy. “You wouldn’t”

“Wouldn’t I?”

“I’ll rescind the pastry”

Andrew scoops it closer to himself. “The deed is already done”

Neil considers this. A few weeks worth of moments, little snippets in time that have formed together in Neil’s memory, that have drifted in and out of his thoughts at their own leisure, all of them come together in a split moment. Not so long ago, Neil had realised he deserved the monotony of a normal life and a nice job. Perhaps, after all this time, he deserves this, too. He says, after a beat; “then, I’ll….take you to dinner?”

“You would buy my silence?” and if Neil isn’t mistaken, there’s a hint of a smile stretching the soft pink of Andrew’s mouth. 

“It would be a very boring date if you stayed _silent_ ”

“A date, is it?” asks Andrew, “it’s you, then”

“What’s me?” 

Somehow, over the course of this conversation, Neil has drifted close enough to the workbench that a wooden tray is digging uncomfortably into his hip and Andrew, seemingly despite himself, has abandoned all pretence of sitting on the cashier stool. Quiet enough that Neil wouldn’t hear if he were any further away, Andrew explains, “you’re the stupid one”

A laugh, bright and surprising, bubbles up in Neil’s throat and spills over in the crease of his eyes and the shine of his teeth. “For wanting to date you?”

“Something like that”

On the desk, Andrew’s hand drifts to the space where Neil’s rests gently by a pile of discarded leaves. In a surprisingly considerate tone, Andrew asks, “yes or no?”

A shiver runs along Neil’s spine, but it’s the good kind, and he nods. Slowly, as though time itself stands still in anticipation of it, Andrew tucks his hand beneath Neil’s own, fingers curving beneath the bend of Neil’s fingers and thumb stroking soft along the patchwork-scarring by his knuckles. It feels nice, the handholding. Feels right, feels like, _oh._

Carefully, Andrew lifts Neil’s hand between them and asks, again, “yes?”

Only when Neil nods his assent once more – and isn’t that _incredible_ , isn’t that everything Neil thought he would never deserve – does Andrew lift Neil’s hand, bowing his head just a little, enough that the overhead lighting tints his eyelashes pure gold. He lifts Neil’s hand and his mouth, careful and gentle and warm, presses a kiss to Neil’s knuckles, so tender that it sends him weak at the knees.   
“ _Andrew…_ ”

Andrew straightens, though not yet relinquishing Neil’s hand from his own, and his eyes reflect the tumult of feelings spinning through Neil himself. “I’ll pick you up at seven?”

“I thought _I_ was supposed to be taking _you_?”

“Well,” Andrew considers. “Yes. You can pay, if it soothes your ego”

Neil laughs, and time starts again, and his hand stays firm in Andrew’s for the rest of his break. Neil laughs, and he feels _real_ , like he’s stumbled upon that _real life_ thing without even trying. He laughs, and Andrew smiles, something muted and gorgeous and utterly special, and Neil thinks, _finally._

**Author's Note:**

>  _Au Maidrín Rua_ is Irish for the little red fox
> 
> The quote on Andrew's lighter is from Arthur Conan Doyle
> 
> follow me on tumblr @ softminyard !!


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